


But it's early, this morning.

by Yelposaurus



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Cold, Introspection, Mornings, Walks In The Park, just a little something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yelposaurus/pseuds/Yelposaurus
Summary: The cold bites at my fingers, like its a little dog barking alongside me, cool fur just barely brushing my hands. It flies past my nose, just touching my ears, making my lips go dry and my hands all tingly inside, like tiny little spiders are crawling all over my bones; just cold enough so that I can't feel them, like they're too stiff to move, too covered in clouds - but not enough to leave me numb to the bone.





	But it's early, this morning.

It's early, this morning. I've just gotten out of bed, and the covers are still a little messy, still a little crumpled. The curtains hardly shift, sitting there all still and silent without their breeze to make them move.  
The stairs creak beneath my feet, their sound breaking the silence, almost like its ruffling up the air around me, just as I tiptoe down.

The door glides open, barely hitting the wall behind it as I walk in.  
My coat is draped over the back of a chair, looking limp. I pick it up and put it on, feeling it drag at my arms, getting a little caught on my clothes before it sits on my shoulders all snug and warm.

I stand in front of the second door for a few moments, before I open it.

The blast of cold air that blows through the gap is more welcoming than the building I'm standing in.

It feels a little more like home.

I step outside, looking at the pale yellow sun, it's colours bleeding across the sky like drops of ink in water.  
The cold bites at my fingers, like its a little dog barking alongside me, cool fur just barely brushing my hands. It flies past my nose, just touching my ears, making my lips go dry and my hands all tingly inside, like tiny little spiders are crawling all over my bones; just cold enough so that I can't feel them, like they're too stiff to move, too covered in clouds - but not enough to leave me numb to the bone.

The wind picks up, whistling through the leaves and the grass and my coat, the cold starting to feel a little less like frost and a little more like ice.

But I can't really say that's a bad thing, when I'm standing out here by choice. 

My feet start to move on their own, my shoes trampling on some frosted over leaves, their crunch a satisfying sound to hear.  
It adds a little bit of warmth, a little bit of familiarity to me, reminding me of those times back when I was a kid playing around in the leaves like I could have anything I damn well wanted.  
It tones down the cold, just a little, where it was getting too much, starting to chomp, play a little rough.

It turns it down just enough, just enough so that I feel a little better, cause I don't know where my darn feet are taking me right now, even if it is me who's moving them.

I almost want to stop and turn around, head back to that warm house.  
But the cold is just as inviting, feeling all pretty and fresh against my skin, all cool and bitter an tingly.  
So my legs keep on churning, taking me on to a place I don't know, to a place I don't recognise.

But that's fine. There are too many memories in the places remember - they're just out of reach, my fingertips just a little short of the prize, body and mind straining just a bit too much, trying to claw back all those things that I have lost.  
But they stay out of reach, only a few steps ahead, so my legs keep on churning.

They take me to an old park bench.  
And since its lying there all pretty and nice and old and rotten, I figure that I may as well do what it's asking and sit down.

Its cold, but then again - so is everything else.  
And I finally get a chance to look around, take in where I am.

There are lines of dying trees on either side of a jagged path that cuts through the overgrown grass. A few still have some leaves, still look pretty; most look charred, burnt and stripped to their cinders, to their very own flecks of ash - how ironic, considering the blazing golden fires that smother the ground beneath their mauled branches.

Old streetlights stretch high, flickering between the decision of whether its too light, or too dark. Kinda like they're wondering whether or not to bother, and it almost makes me smile, seeing how much I can relate to the feeling.  
Almost.

Cause the cold weighs me down, pulling at the corners of my mouth, clawing at the tree branches lining that jagged path that cuts through the overgrown grass, reaching blindly for their few pretty leaves, pinning them to the ground like darts to a board.

My breath billows out in front of me, the cold biting just a little harder at my fingers, pushing at my nose just a little too long, tugging a bit too much at my ears.

The sound of a door closing echoes past my ears.  
Someone's going out for work, unlocking their car.

I think it's best that I go back now, even if I didn't sit here too long.  
It was it was more than enough. It brought me back to my senses, gave me the _why_ to my _what. _

I get back to my house later, after letting my legs find their way back.  
I wait outside my front door for a few seconds, relishing in the cold.

But then it's over, and I slip my shoes off after walking inside.  
I tug my coat off, feeling it drag and get a little caught on my clothes before it complies, and I lay it over the back of a chair, it looking limp.  
I close the second door behind me, the lock clicking quietly into place.  
The air is ruffled around me as I tiptoe up the stairs.

When I reach my room, the curtains have hardly moved.  
The covers still lie there, still a little messy, still a little crumpled. 

But it's early this morning, and I've just gotten out of bed. 


End file.
